line; she did not ask why he had been maligned, she only felt assured
that he had been so. She wondered how she had ever believed a syllable
against him; she wondered how the Egyptian had been enabled to exercise
a power against Glaucus; she felt a chill creep over her as she again
turned to his warning against Arbaces, and her secret fear of that
gloomy being darkened into awe. She was awakened from these thoughts by
her maidens, who came to announce to her that the hour appointed to
visit Arbaces was arrived; she started, she had forgotten the promise.
Her first impression was to renounce it; her second, was to laugh at her
own fears of her eldest surviving friend. She hastened to add the usual
ornaments to her dress, and doubtful whether she should yet question the
Egyptian more closely with respect to his accusation of Glaucus, or
whether she should wait till, without citing the authority, she should
insinuate to Glaucus the accusation itself, she took her way to the
gloomy mansion of Arbaces.
Chapter VII
IONE ENTRAPPED. THE MOUSE TRIES TO GNAW THE NET.
'DEAREST Nydia!' exclaimed Glaucus as he read the letter of Ione,
'whitest robed messenger that ever passed between earth and heaven--how,
how shall I thank thee?'
'I am rewarded,' said the poor Thessalian.
'To-morrow--to-morrow! how shall I while the hours till then?'
The enamoured Greek would not let Nydia escape him, though she sought
several times to leave the chamber; he made her recite to him over and
over again every syllable of the brief conversation that had taken place
between her and Ione; a thousand times, forgetting her misfortune, he
questioned her of the looks, of the countenance of his beloved; and then
quickly again excusing his fault, he bade her recommence the whole
recital which he had thus interrupted. The hours thus painful to Nydia
passed rapidly and delightfully to him, and the twilight had already
darkened ere he once more dismissed her to Ione with a fresh letter and
with new flowers. Scarcely had she gone, than Clodius and several of
his gay companions broke in upon him; they rallied him on his seclusion
during the whole day, and absence from his customary haunts; they
invited him to accompany them to the various resorts in that lively
city, which night and day proffered diversity to pleasure. Then, as
now, in the south (for no land, perhaps, losing more of greatness has
retained more of custom), it was the delight of the Italians to assemble
at the evening; and, under the porticoes of temples or the shade of the
groves that interspersed the streets, listening to music or the recitals
of some inventive tale-teller, they hailed the rising moon with
libations of wine and the melodies of song. Glaucus was too happy to be
unsocial; he longed to cast off the exuberance of joy that oppressed
him. He willingly accepted the proposal of his comrades, and laughingly
they sallied out together down the populous and glittering streets.
In the meantime Nydia once more gained the house of Ione, who had long
left it; she inquired indifferently whither Ione had gone.
The answer arrested and appalled her.
'To the house of Arbaces--of the Egyptian? Impossible!'
'It is true, my little one,' said the slave, who had replied to her
question. 'She has known the Egyptian long.'
'Long! ye gods, yet Glaucus loves her?' murmured Nydia to herself.
'And has,' asked she aloud, 'has she often visited him before?'
'Never till now,' answered the slave. 'If all the rumored scandal of
Pompeii be true, it would be better, perhaps, if she had not ventured
there at present. But she, poor mistress mine, hears nothing of that
which reaches us; the talk of the vestibulum reaches not to the
peristyle.'
'Never till now!' repeated Nydia. 'Art thou sure?'
'Sure, pretty one: but what is that to thee or to us?'
Nydia hesitated a moment, and then, putting down the flowers with which
she had been charged, she called to the slave who had accompanied her,
and left the house without saying another word.
Not till she had got half-way back to the house of Glaucus did she break
silence, and even then she only murmured inly:
'She does not dream--she cannot--of the dangers into which she has
plunged. Fool that I am--shall I save her?--yes, for I love Glaucus
better than myself.'
When she arrived at the house of the Athenian, she learnt that he had
gone out with a party of his friends, and none knew whither. He
probably would not be home before midnight.
The Thessalian groaned; she sank upon a seat in the hall and covered her
face with her hands as if to collect her thoughts. 'There is no time to
be lost,' thought she, starting up. She turned to the slave who had
accompanied her.
'Knowest thou,' said she, 'if Ione has any relative, any intimate friend
at Pompeii?'
'Why, by Jupiter!' answered the slave, 'art thou silly enough to ask the
question? Every one in Pompeii knows that Ione has a brother who, young
and rich, has been--under the rose I speak--so foolish as to become a
priest of Isis.'
'A priest of Isis! O Gods! his name?'
'Apaecides.'
'I know it all,' muttered Nydia: 'brother and sister, then, are to be
both victims! Apaecides! yes, that was the name I heard in... Ha! he
well, then, knows the peril that surrounds his sister; I will go to
him.'
She sprang up at that thought, and taking the staff which always guided
her steps, she hastened to the neighboring shrine of Isis. Till she had
been under the guardianship of the kindly Greek, that staff had sufficed
to conduct the poor blind girl from corner to corner of Pompeii. Every
street, every turning in the more frequented parts, was familiar to her;
and as the inhabitants entertained a tender and half-superstitious
veneration for those subject to her infirmity, the passengers had always
given way to her timid steps. Poor girl, she little dreamed that she
should, ere many days were passed, find her blindness her protection,
and a guide far safer than the keenest eyes!
But since she had been under the roof of Glaucus, he had ordered a slave
to accompany her always; and the poor devil thus appointed, who was
somewhat of the fattest, and who, after having twice performed the
journey to Ione's house, now saw himself condemned to a third excursion
(whither the gods only knew), hastened after her, deploring his fate,
and solemnly assuring Castor and Pollux that he believed the blind girl
had the talaria of Mercury as well as the infirmity of Cupid.
Nydia, however, required but little of his assistance to find her way to
the popular temple of Isis: the space before it was now deserted, and
she won without obstacle to the sacred rail.
'There is no one here,' said the fat slave. 'What dost thou want, or
whom Knowest thou not that the priests do not live in the temple?'
'Call out,' said she, impatiently; 'night and day there is always one
flamen, at least, watching in the shrine of Isis.'
The slave called--no one appeared.
'Seest thou no one?'
'No one.'
'Thou mistakest; I hear a sigh: look again.'
The slave, wondering and grumbling, cast round his heavy eyes, and
before one of the altars, whose remains still crowd the narrow space, he
beheld a form bending as in meditation.
'I see a figure, said he; 'and by the white garments, it is a priest.'
'O flamen of Isis!' cried Nydia; 'servant of the Most Ancient, hear me!'
'Who calls?' said a low and melancholy voice.
'One who has no common tidings to impart to a member of your body: I
come to declare and not to ask oracles.'
'With whom wouldst thou confer? This is no hour for thy conference;
depart, disturb me not; the night is sacred to the gods, the day to
men.'
'Methinks I know thy voice? thou art he whom I seek; yet I have heard
thee speak but once before. Art thou not the priest Apaecides?'
'I am that man,' replied the priest, emerging from the altar, and
approaching the rail.
'Thou art! the gods be praised!' Waving her hand to the slave, she bade
him withdraw to a distance; and he, who naturally imagined some
superstition connected, perhaps, with the safety of Ione, could alone
lead her to the temple, obeyed, and seated himself on the ground, at a
little distance. 'Hush!' said she, speaking quick and low; 'art thou
indeed Apaecides?'
'If thou knowest me, canst thou not recall my features?'
'I am blind,' answered Nydia; 'my eyes are in my ear, and that
recognizes thee: yet swear that thou art he.'
'By the gods I swear it, by my right hand, and by the moon!'
'Hush! speak low--bend near--give me thy hand; knowest thou Arbaces?
Hast thou laid flowers at the feet of the dead? Ah! thy hand is
cold--hark yet!--hast thou taken the awful vow?'
'Who art thou, whence comest thou, pale maiden?' said Apaecides,
fearfully: 'I know thee not; thine is not the breast on which this head
hath lain; I have never seen thee before.'
'But thou hast heard my voice: no matter, those recollections it should
shame us both to recall. Listen, thou hast a sister.'
'Speak! speak! what of her?'
'Thou knowest the banquets of the dead, stranger--it pleases thee,
perhaps, to share them--would it please thee to have thy sister a
partaker? Would it please thee that Arbaces was her host?'
'O gods, he dare not! Girl, if thou mockest me, tremble! I will tear
thee limb from limb!'
'I speak the truth; and while I speak, Ione is in the halls of
Arbaces--for the first time his guest. Thou knowest if there be peril
in that first time! Farewell! I have fulfilled my charge.'
'Stay! stay!' cried the priest, passing his wan hand over his brow. 'If
this be true, what--what can be done to save her? They may not admit
me. I know not all the mazes of that intricate mansion. O Nemesis!
justly am I punished!'
'I will dismiss yon slave, be thou my guide and comrade; I will lead
thee to the private door of the house: I will whisper to thee the word
which admits. Take some weapon: it may be needful!'
'Wait an instant,' said Apaecides, retiring into one of the cells that
flank the temple, and reappearing in a few moments wrapped in a large
cloak, which was then much worn by all classes, and which concealed his
sacred dress. 'Now,' he said, grinding his teeth, 'if Arbaces hath dared
to--but he dare not! he dare not! Why should I suspect him? Is he so
base a villain? I will not think it--yet, sophist! dark bewilderer that
he is! O gods protect--hush! are there gods? Yes, there is one
goddess, at least, whose voice I can command; and that is--Vengeance!'
Muttering these disconnected thoughts, Apaecides, followed by his silent
and sightless companion, hastened through the most solitary paths to the
house of the Egyptian.
The slave, abruptly dismissed by Nydia, shrugged his shoulders, muttered
an adjuration, and, nothing loath, rolled off to his cubiculum.
Chapter VIII
THE SOLITUDE AND SOLILOQUY OF THE EGYPTIAN. HIS CHARACTER ANALYSED.
WE must go back a few hours in the progress of our story. At the first
grey dawn of the day, which Glaucus had already marked with white, the
Egyptian was seated, sleepless and alone, on the summit of the lofty and
pyramidal tower which flanked his house. A tall parapet around it
served as a wall, and conspired, with the height of the edifice and the
gloomy trees that girded the mansion, to defy the prying eyes of
curiosity or observation. A table, on which lay a scroll, filled with
mystic figures, was before him. On high, the stars waxed dim and faint,
and the shades of night melted from the sterile mountain-tops; only
above Vesuvius there rested a deep and massy cloud, which for several
days past had gathered darker and more solid over its summit. The
struggle of night and day was more visible over the broad ocean, which
stretched calm, like a gigantic lake, bounded by the circling shores
that, covered with vines and foliage, and gleaming here and there with
the white walls of sleeping cities, sloped to the scarce rippling waves.
It was the hour above all others most sacred to the daring science of
the Egyptian--the science which would read our changeful destinies in
the stars.
He had filled his scroll, he had noted the moment and the sign; and,
leaning upon his hand, he had surrendered himself to the thoughts which
his calculation excited.
'Again do the stars forewarn me! Some danger, then, assuredly awaits
me!' said he, slowly; 'some danger, violent and sudden in its nature.
The stars wear for me the same mocking menace which, if our chronicles
do not err, they once wore for Pyrrhus--for him, doomed to strive for
all things, to enjoy none--all attacking, nothing gaining--battles
without fruit, laurels without triumph, fame without success; at last
made craven by his own superstitions, and slain like a dog by a tile
from the hand of an old woman! Verily, the stars flatter when they give
me a type in this fool of war--when they promise to the ardour of my
wisdom the same results as to the madness of his ambition--perpetual
exercise--no certain goal!--the Sisyphus task, the mountain and the
stone!--the stone, a gloomy image!--it reminds me that I am threatened
with somewhat of the same death as the Epirote. Let me look again.
"Beware," say the shining prophets, "how thou passest under ancient
roofs, or besieged walls, or overhanging cliffs--a stone hurled from
above, is charged by the curses of destiny against thee!" And, at no
distant date from this, comes the peril: but I cannot, of a certainty,
read the day and hour. Well! if my glass runs low, the sands shall
